


For the Irony

by justacr0w



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Implied Relationships, Other, Party Games, Reader-Insert, Swearing, kind of, reader has a shitty history with parties okay, you're not actually dating bro in this okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 08:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18616567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justacr0w/pseuds/justacr0w
Summary: You've been invited to a party at Dave's place. Things go exactly as you expected them to- badly.Super old fic where Bro is super OOC, but I still kinda like it. Don't ask how the trolls got to Texas- it's some timey-wimey wormhole nonsense.





	For the Irony

**Author's Note:**

> In case you missed the tag, you are NOT actually in a relationship with Bro. Things are just very comfortable between you. Just so there's no confusion. ^-^

“Oh, come on, Dave. This game is totally cliché.”

“Come off it, (Name). It’s a requirement,” Dave replies, ignoring your protests and gathering everyone else at the party into a circle in his living room. Honestly you’re not sure how so many people can fit in this room, considering it’s an apartment in Texas, but somehow it’s working.

You yourself are perched on the arm of the futon with a soda while Dave, John, Rose, and Jade are spaced evenly among the group of twelve trolls. At some point earlier in the evening, Dave collected items from everyone and dropped them in a huge bag, which he now produces from hammerspace.

He announces the dreaded “Seven Minutes in Heaven,” making you groan under your breath and a couple of others do the same. Whatever criteria he’s decided on to choose the first person to play, it ends up being Sollux, and conveniently, the yellow-blood winds up with Eridan. You suspect Dave rigged this round just to see what would happen.

The two disappear into the local closet and you set your phone timer for seven minutes. During that time, loud thumps and curses come from behind the locked door, making you wince each time. When they emerge, both of them have multiple scratches and bite marks on their skin, and you’re positive there’s a smear of violet blood on Sollux’s lip.

The game proceeds in the expected fashion, with several sloppy makeouts, another blackrom, and at least one instance of groping. Finally Dave points at you, still perched on the futon with your phone. You pretend not to notice the disgusted look on Vriska’s face as he does (Karkat seems to share her disgust, but he looks pissed all the time anyway, so you can’t be sure if it’s related to you being involved or not).

“C’mere, (Name),” Dave says. “Your turn. Put the phone down and choose.”

You shake your head. “Nah, I’m good. Y’all keep playing.”

“Pick something,” he insists, and you shove the bag out of your face.

“No, Dave. Pick somebody else. Let Tavros go, or Jade.”

He rolls his eyes behind those damnable shades and moves on to his next victim. You shift, crossing your legs, and make a point of avoiding Vriska’s smug gaze.

The night passes slowly on, and by the time two am rolls around, most everybody has gone home. Except Gamzee and Tavros, but they’re on their way out the door too, Tavros’s arm slung over Gamzee’s shoulder as the clown chugs one last Faygo.

“Later, motherfuckers,” Gamzee calls as he shuffles out with Tavros.

“Later, Gamzee,” you reply, and lock the door behind them.

Dave is passed out on the futon (probably an excess of sugar from all that wicked apple juice he was chugging earlier), his shades slightly crooked on his face. You shake your head, sigh, and tug him off the sofa enough to get his arm over your shoulders. Then you half drag, half carry him to his room and drop him on the unmade bed. He doesn’t wake up at all as you do this, but when you go to remove his shades so he doesn’t break them, he apparently regains consciousness enough to grab your wrist.

“Don’ touch th’ shades,” he slurs, and wriggles into a more comfortable position.

“Right,” you mutter. “Dave, I’m borrowing your shower.”

“M’kay.” He’s snoring three seconds later.

With another sigh, you leave his room and go back to the living room to start cleaning up. There’s empty pizza boxes and soda cans and trash everywhere, so you busy yourself making the place presentable before Bro gets back from whatever weird night job he has. While you clean, you can’t help but think back to the party and wonder why the hell Dave invited you in the first place. Was it really because he considered you a friend? Or was it just because he knew you’d make sure everyone got home safely and keep the place from getting trashed? You’re betting it’s the latter. It always is.

“Why do I even agree anymore?” you ask yourself as you tie another trash bag shut and set it by the front door to be carried out later.

Finally the place is back to a somewhat livable state, but you refuse to touch the smuppets more than necessary, kicking them out of the way with your foot whenever one gets in your path. You carry what few actual dishes were used into the kitchen, forgetting that Dave and Bro are not normal people and keep fucking katanas in their kitchen cabinets. One falls out of the refrigerator when you go to put Dave’s apple juice away, and another is laying in the sink when you attempt to wash dishes (there’s probably three clean plates in the entire apartment, even though everybody used paper ones tonight). It cuts your hand when you lift it out, and you curse silently before throwing the stupid thing into the living room to be dealt with later.

“Dammit, Dave. Can’t you and Bro keep these things someplace besides your kitchen?” you grumble as you scrub plates in hot soapy water.

By the time everything is done to your satisfaction, it’s almost six am and you’re covered in sweat. Shrugging, you go to your bag, which has been protected by virtue of being in the kitchen this entire time anyway, and pull out a spare shirt. No hope for pants, but you don’t care. It’s not your legs that were sweating anyway. You go to the bathroom, strip, and shower, taking your time because Bro isn’t due back until sometime after seven and there’s no chance of Dave ironically walking in you because he’s still comatose.

When you finish, you return to the living room and brush your hair, sitting on the futon. You hear the front door open, but don’t bother looking. It’s just Bro, you know, because nobody besides him and Dave have keys to the door. You glance up from your hair to see Lil’ Cal staring at you from the left.

“What the fuck, Bro?” you ask with a deadpan expression. You’ve been over here enough times that it no longer freaks you out when Bro randomly flash-steps into view or disappears or anything really.

Bro shrugs, and Lil’ Cal disappears from view. You go back to brushing your hair.

“You been here all night?” he asks finally, and you nod.

“Everybody cleared out by two,” you tell him, “and I stayed to clean up ‘cause Dave passed the hell out from too much apple juice.”

Bro takes a seat on the opposite end of the futon, giving you the once over before speaking again. “You didn’t play.”

“Huh?”

“Whatever ironic game lil’ man came up with for this party. You didn’t play.”

“How do you know that?”

“You don’t look like you had fun, kid.”

Shrugging, you stand up and go to put your brush back in your bag. “What’s it matter? I only got invited for the sheer irony anyway.”

You can tell Bro is watching you, but you don’t care. You carry your bag with you back to the futon and sit down again, playing with the straps.

“I know lil’ man is a dick, but that’s no excuse. Why didn’t you play? Too mature for playing in a closet?” There’s a faintly teasing air about him right now, but you’re not in the mood.

You turn on him, eyes blazing through your weariness. “I told you I only got invited because it was ironic. Dave fucking Strider, friends with the weirdo nobody else actually likes.”

One of Bro’s eyebrows comes up above those pointed shades, but he doesn’t say anything, letting you continue your rant.

“I know for a fact they didn’t want me here. Vriska’s face alone was proof enough, when Dave said it was my turn. They all had plenty of fun without me. All I’m good for is cleaning up and keeping them from trashing your place.”

“You know Vriska’s got some issues, (Name). You can’t go on just her shit.”

You shrug. “It’s not just Vriska, though. Nobody bothered to talk to me the entire night except Dave and Gamzee, but they’re the only ones. Besides, how did you know we played Seven Minutes?”

“Shenanigans,” he replies. “That doesn’t tell me why you refused, though.”

You look away, shoulders slumping in defeat. “What would be the point?” you ask lowly. “Nobody would have wanted to be in there with me anyway. Nobody ever does.”

“Ever?”

“I’ve played it before, at other parties. Every time, when my turn came up, whoever I ended up with would come up with some reason why they suddenly couldn’t play anymore. But when their turn came to choose, they were fine, as long as it wasn’t me they ended up with.”

“Lame,” Bro says, leaning back and looking at the ceiling. “You should retaliate.”

“How?”

“By punching them in the dick.”

His voice is so deadpan that you can’t help just staring at him for a minute before bursting into laughter. His famous Strider indifference vanishes for a split second as a grin crosses his face, but then it’s gone. You shake your head, still snickering, and curl up on your end of the futon.

“It’s not like I can blame them, though,” you say finally. “I’m not the kind of person anybody wants to be stuck with for any length of time.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Truth,” you shrug. “It’s been that way my whole life. You should know- I’ve been friends with Dave most of that time. If it can be called friendship.”

Bro shrugs. “Well, he keeps you around, so he must like you at least a little bit. Not even Dave can deal with something he hates just for the irony for that long.”

You shrug. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I’m heading out. Thanks for letting Dave host his bullshit party, and for letting me borrow the shower.”

You stand and make your way to the door, but Bro grabs your wrist as you pass by. He yanks you back onto the futon, right next to him, and wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“Chill, kid. You can crash here for a while. Get some damn sleep- you look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks,” you grumble sarcastically.

“You’re fucking welcome. Now lay down, dammit.” He moves you so your head is resting in his lap and his arm is draped almost protectively over your chest. “Sleep.”

“Because this isn’t awkward as shit, huh?” you reply, but don’t bother trying to get up again. You _are_ really tired, you realize, and close your eyes.

“That’s better.” Bro leans his head back again, and the room is silent except for your breathing. As you lay there, you decide you could probably deal with not being wanted by anybody else as long as you can lay here with Bro and enjoy the early morning peace.


End file.
